I’d been wont to say on the playgrounds of my youth.
“So maybe they were just driving by and saw the ambulance and—”
“I think I’ll talk to her.”
“For God’s sake, McCain, why?”
“For the same reason I’m going to talk to Courtney. They aren’t the type that chase after ambulances. They didn’t belong there. Ergo, they’re worth talking to.”
“Ergo,” she said, taking a dramatic drag on her Gauloise.
Her chambers weren’t as exciting as they’d once been. In the old days, I came here to see the beautiful Pamela Forrest, to try and get her to go out with me. Nobody could make me feel as bad as Pamela when she turned me down and it was wonderful, anyway. I was drunk on her. And the Judge hated it, was always
symbolically hosing me off with harsh words about leaving Pamela alone.
But Pamela was gone. I was still in love with her. It hurt but it wasn’t a wonderful hurt anymore. It was a hurt hurt. And for the first time in my life I realized that it was a hurt I’d have to work on getting over. She was out of my life —living elsewhere in shame—and she was never going to be in my life again.
“I want you to promise me you won’t go see her.”
“We’re talking Sara Hall?”
“We are, as you say, talking Sara Hall.”
“She just happened to be out there.”
“She just happened to be out there.”
“A country-club lady out at a hillbilly church where they use rattlesnakes in their religious ceremonies?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re not even curious why she was out there?”
“No.”
“Well,” I said, standing up so as to avoid the rubber band she’d just shot at me, “you’re the boss.”
“Yes, I am, McCain,” she smiled with her imperious mouth, “and don’t you forget it.”
How I came to talk to Sara Hall twenty minutes later is something I’m not necessarily proud of. I mean, it’s the sort of duplicitous thing only a counselor-at-law could come up with. Or a Republican.
Let me put it to you as a philosophical question.
Say there’s this woman you want to ask some questions. Now, you’ve already given your word that you won’t go see her.
But what if you happen to be driving by her house and you see her backing out of her driveway in her new DeSoto convertible?
And what if you just happen—not having anything else better to do and the day being so beautiful and all and you owning a red ‘ea ragtop and it needing to go for a drive to clean some of the engine sludge away and all—y just happen to follow her to our town’s first, only, and very tiny—twelve stores-enclosed shopping mall.
And what if you just happen to follow her inside?
And wait while she’s in The Moderne
Woman? And when she comes out, she runs into you.
You will notice, I believe, the subtle difference between me running into her and her running into me. Which, technically, she did. She could’ve gone right, she could’ve gone left, but instead she chose—completely of her own volition—ffwalk straight.
Now, to be technical again, it is true that I abruptly moved over from my rightward position to be in front of her when she chose—of her own volition—ffwalk straight ahead. But that’s hardly my fault, is it? There was a sudden draft from the nearby air-conditioning duct, and is it my fault I didn’t want to catch a head cold and be laid up for weeks? Possibly in traction?
“Hi, Sara.”
“Oh, hi, McCain.”
Neither time nor alcohol could ever quite dim her beauty. She had a kind of sensibly erotic face, the schoolmarm whose ripe lips told of discreet and memorable pleasures. The brown eyes were sad—y don’t drink as much as she did and look happy—but again they were not without aesthetic pleasure, fine brown eyes they were, even with their melancholy, and not without a hint of high intelligent humor even in their gentle pain.
White sleeveless blouse, tan tailored skirt, no hose, brown flats. Nice arms.
“That’s funny. I just saw the Judge a
“So maybe they were just driving by and saw the ambulance and—”
“I think I’ll talk to her.”
“For God’s sake, McCain, why?”
“For the same reason I’m going to talk to Courtney. They aren’t the type that chase after ambulances. They didn’t belong there. Ergo, they’re worth talking to.”
“Ergo,” she said, taking a dramatic drag on her Gauloise.
Her chambers weren’t as exciting as they’d once been. In the old days, I came here to see the beautiful Pamela Forrest, to try and get her to go out with me. Nobody could make me feel as bad as Pamela when she turned me down and it was wonderful, anyway. I was drunk on her. And the Judge hated it, was always
symbolically hosing me off with harsh words about leaving Pamela alone.
But Pamela was gone. I was still in love with her. It hurt but it wasn’t a wonderful hurt anymore. It was a hurt hurt. And for the first time in my life I realized that it was a hurt I’d have to work on getting over. She was out of my life —living elsewhere in shame—and she was never going to be in my life again.
“I want you to promise me you won’t go see her.”
“We’re talking Sara Hall?”
“We are, as you say, talking Sara Hall.”
“She just happened to be out there.”
“She just happened to be out there.”
“A country-club lady out at a hillbilly church where they use rattlesnakes in their religious ceremonies?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re not even curious why she was out there?”
“No.”
“Well,” I said, standing up so as to avoid the rubber band she’d just shot at me, “you’re the boss.”
“Yes, I am, McCain,” she smiled with her imperious mouth, “and don’t you forget it.”
How I came to talk to Sara Hall twenty minutes later is something I’m not necessarily proud of. I mean, it’s the sort of duplicitous thing only a counselor-at-law could come up with. Or a Republican.
Let me put it to you as a philosophical question.
Say there’s this woman you want to ask some questions. Now, you’ve already given your word that you won’t go see her.
But what if you happen to be driving by her house and you see her backing out of her driveway in her new DeSoto convertible?
And what if you just happen—not having anything else better to do and the day being so beautiful and all and you owning a red ‘ea ragtop and it needing to go for a drive to clean some of the engine sludge away and all—y just happen to follow her to our town’s first, only, and very tiny—twelve stores-enclosed shopping mall.
And what if you just happen to follow her inside?
And wait while she’s in The Moderne
Woman? And when she comes out, she runs into you.
You will notice, I believe, the subtle difference between me running into her and her running into me. Which, technically, she did. She could’ve gone right, she could’ve gone left, but instead she chose—completely of her own volition—ffwalk straight.
Now, to be technical again, it is true that I abruptly moved over from my rightward position to be in front of her when she chose—of her own volition—ffwalk straight ahead. But that’s hardly my fault, is it? There was a sudden draft from the nearby air-conditioning duct, and is it my fault I didn’t want to catch a head cold and be laid up for weeks? Possibly in traction?
“Hi, Sara.”
“Oh, hi, McCain.”
Neither time nor alcohol could ever quite dim her beauty. She had a kind of sensibly erotic face, the schoolmarm whose ripe lips told of discreet and memorable pleasures. The brown eyes were sad—y don’t drink as much as she did and look happy—but again they were not without aesthetic pleasure, fine brown eyes they were, even with their melancholy, and not without a hint of high intelligent humor even in their gentle pain.
White sleeveless blouse, tan tailored skirt, no hose, brown flats. Nice arms.
“That’s funny. I just saw the Judge a
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